


Hesitation

by thefriendlyrhino



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Poetry, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock - Freeform, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefriendlyrhino/pseuds/thefriendlyrhino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is devastated by Sherlock's death; everything reminds him of his friend, and nothing can seem to fill the hole in his life Sherlock left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hesitation

He stared at it.  
The face in 221B.  
Smeared on the wall in dull, dusty yellow.  
Mocking him.  
Covered in the bullets he had fired.  
The face now marked up with wrinkles and scars.  
Scars making it wink.  
Making it cry.  
Making its smile into a smirk.  
Or a sneer.  
It was sneering at John.

He hated it, that face.  
He wanted to leave.  
Leave Baker Street.  
But he couldn’t cover it up.  
He couldn’t get rid of that face.  
And still he couldn’t look at it.  
He couldn’t rip it out or tear it down.  
He just couldn’t do that.  
Not to something so permanently his.

The idea of painting it over sickened him.  
Almost as much as looking at it did.  
Each glance a reminder of what he had lost.  
But the chemistry equipment was gone.  
There were no more thumbs in the fridge.  
Or eyes in the microwave.  
His scarf.  
His coat.  
That deerstalker.  
All gone.  
The face was all that remained.

The yellow mocked him.  
It reminded him of the warm sun.  
The smile mocked him.  
It reminded him of happiness.  
Baker Street mocked him.  
It reminded him of Sherlock.  
He only felt hollow.  
Empty.  
Cold.

The gun was cold.  
And heavy.  
But familiar in his hands.  
The sharp click of the safety echoed through the apartment.  
The face just watched.  
Off.  
On.  
Off.  
On.  
Hands shaking.  
Shoulders heaving.  
Tears burning.  
The tip pressed to his temple.  
Head pounding.

One more bullet.  
One more hole.

He shot a final look at the face,  
A final glance at its scornful smirk.  
A wry smile tugged at his quivering lips.  
A dry laugh pushed sourly at his tongue.  
He slipped a finger onto the safety.  
A tender click.  
Off.  
It was a comforting sound.  
A soothing sound.  
One that promised to end the pain.

He didn’t hesitate.


End file.
